Page 45 of This Could Be Us
I have no idea if it will or not, or what it will cost me to make things “fine.” Whatever it is, I’ll do it.
“The influencer thing will take off. You’re starting to build an audience,” Hendrix says. “You know I be checking your socials.”
“It’s been a slow start.” I grimace. “But I did set up my storefront, so now when folks see things on my page and use my links to buy them, I get a cut.”
“You just keep sharing good content with yourromanticizing your life, but still accessibleaesthetic.”
“If by ‘accessible’ you mean broke.” I choke out a laugh. “That’s me. I try to stay consistent, posting my recipes and cleaning hacks and lifestyle stuff. I did a video earlier today making that vinaigrette you guys love so much.”
“And you got a million things like that people will love and spread the word about. It’s only a matter of time.”
My phone buzzes on the floor by my feet, and I glance down at the now-familiar dreaded number, groaning. “Not today, Satan.”
“Who is it?”
“My mortgage company.” I decline the call and reach for my glass again. The glass is not deep enough to drown all my sorrows, but I’m gonna try. “The night shift.”
“Past due?”
I shoot her a glance and take another sip, not wanting to answer. It’s shitty being broke, but being broke with rich friends is a different level of embarrassment. I know Hendrix and Yasmen don’t look down on me, and they know my full story, but it just gets awkward. I’ve foundmyself refusing to go out because they always want to cover my tab. A night in drinking or a meal at home I can swing. Anything else usually goes beyond my purse’s reach fast these days.
“I believe things will pick up on the influencer end,” she says. “I know you’ve gotten a few small-brand deals, and they were so pleased with the traction on the post. The cool thing these days is that you don’t have to have a huge following to get results for a brand. I think they’ll be back.”
“I agree, and it’s the kind of thing that feels most natural to me. Talking about my fave recipe or cleaning product or Dustbuster or whatever, but the bills keep piling up faster than the money comes in.”
“Let me help.”
My fingers tighten around the fragile stem of the glass. “Thanks, Hen, but you’ve done enough.”
She and Yasmen have helped so much without me having to ask. Groceries from Yasmen have shown up at the house several times. Hendrix has been going around me to sneakily investigate how much Lottie’s gym fees are and pay them. They’re my best friends, and I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, but a helpless rage claws at my heart when I think about how desperate things are getting as the last of my savings dwindles. I can’t just lean on my friends’ generosity indefinitely. I won’t. My eyes burn and I bite my lip to fight back a scream at the unfairness of the situation Edward has left us in.
“This drink is going right through me,” I say, forcing a smile and standing. “Bathroom break.”
I feel Hendrix’s perceptive stare on my back all the way down the hall to her gorgeously appointed powder room. The soft lights rimming the mirror over her sink expose the defeat in my eyes, the bitter set of my lips. I brace my hands on the vanity and stare back at a stranger, a woman who looks lost and let down, my expression belying the high pony tied atop my head this morning in hopes it would makemefeel bouncy.
I’m not bouncy.
I’m not buoyant.
I’m sinking.
I’m so fucking tired of holding back my tears for the girls, for my friends, for the moms at Harrington whose judgmental stares noted when I had to trade my new Rover for a secondhand Honda. I had to avert my eyes when I saw someone wearing my favorite off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater. There was the tiniest irregularity in the pattern, so I recognized it immediately. That wasmyirregularity. I paid four hundred dollars for it and accepted a fraction of its worth at the consignment shop so I could cover the gas bill.
Every month I ask myself how much longer I can hold on to our house. I could sell it and make things easier on myself, but I don’t want easy. I want myhome; I want the place in the world I carved out for my family. It holds all our memories, and I’m not ready to surrender it. On some level, I think I just can’t take another loss. The marriage I thought was this family’s anchor forever has dissolved, and even though I know Edward destroyed it, not me, the divorce still left me with an unreasonable sense of failure.
As I stare at that defeated stranger in the mirror, the weariness of just getting up every morning and keeping this ship afloat bends my will. My backbone feels like a Twizzler, and I can barely stand under the weight of impending doom.
As soon as I lower the wall holding them back, the tears fall, burning my cheeks and surprising a sob from me. I cup my mouth, afraid of what else will come out. A primal scream of frustration? A wail? I flush the toilet a few times to camouflage my sniffles and hiccups.
“Shit,” I mutter, assessing my splotchy cheeks and red nose in the mirror. Like sharp-eyed Hendrix needs physical clues to my despair. Turning on the cold water, I splash my face and flush my eyes, trying to clear the telltale signs of breakdown. I probably reek of crisis, and Hendrix will start digging for answers right away.
If she does, what will I say? That I think I’m going to lose the house that means so much to me? The one I dedicated years to renovating anddecorating and making a haven for my family? The one I thought I’d see my grandchildren running the halls of?
“It’s just a roof and some walls,” I remind myself. “You can find another roof and cheaper walls if it comes to that.”
I stride back up the hall, smile pinned in place. “That drink hit the spot, but we need to eat. Want me to see what I can whip up? A frittata?”
“Or we could order. Give you the night off. You choose.” Hendrix studies her phone. “Yas says she and Josiah are meeting with their adoption counselor tonight. They’re still trying to decide if maybe fostering is a better option, I think.”